Poppy/H.S

Chapter 3

I keep a tight grip on the small coffee-stained business card, being only one phone call away from confronting Poppy's father about the tonight's distressing turn of events. I prepare the entire speech in my head, my anxiety as high as Mount Everest.

I can't imagine how worried the little girl's father is going to be once he finds out about his only angel being left all by herself at a playground on a Friday evening, accompanied by an anxious and awkward 27-year-old girl who stumbled across his lonely daughter on her way home from work and kept her company for an hour and a half.

I look at my watch, furrowing my eyebrows at the thought of missing the last normal train to Brighton which leaves in an hour. If I miss this train, I would have to take drunk train also known as the train full of drunk teenagers and junkies who travel from London, where they spent their Friday evening drinking, to Brighton. I've lived in Brighton ever since I graduated from college, and have always loved the city. It has some kind of a special force that has drawn me into it the moment I first visited the city, making me fall in love with it even though I've been guilty of cheating on it with London, where I often have to travel for work, meeting with clients.

Sighing, I realise my date with London is not coming to an end anytime soon as I still haven't found the courage to turn the coffee-stained back side of the business card, staring at a text-less page which used to be white before someone, Chiara, I assumed, has spilled their caffeine heaven on it. I play with the card, fiddling it between my fingers and turning my attention to Poppy, still sat on the wooden bench, her sparkly eyes wide as she awaits my following action. Dreading the phone call, I take a seat on the bench next to Poppy.

"So, um, how was the banana?" I ask her the first thing that comes to my mind, cringing a little.

"It was very sweet. Made me feel healthy," she says in all seriousness, making me smile.

"Does your tummy feel better as well?" I direct my next question to her, wondering if she's still hungry.

"It's making these funny noises again, I think it's sad that it can't join our conversation," she informs me, making the corners of my mouth twitch in amusement.

"You know, there's this funny Slovak idiom that people say when their tummies are trying to join a conversation. Do you wanna know what it is?" I ask her, wondering if she's even interested in old Slovak sayings. Surprisingly, she nods her head in excitement, her eyes shiny. "Well, when your tummy is making funny noises, it means there are a few musicians playing their instruments in your tummy. Is this a guitar I hear?" I say, tickling her tummy. She lets out a loud laugh and throws her head back, her chocolate curls swaying in the wind.

"That's so funny!" she exclaims, still laughing, "My daddy is a musician and he also plays the guitar, maybe there's my daddy in my tummy!" Her innocent thought makes me smile, reminding me of the phone call I have to make.

"Speaking of your daddy, I really should call him now. But at the same time, I'm really scared to call him, bug. Do you think he's gonna be angry at me for not letting Chiara take you home?" I ramble, deciding that there's no point in hiding my feelings from Poppy. She's a smart girl, maybe she will get me tips on how talk to her father.

"No, silly! My daddy can't get angry at anyone, he's always so nice to everyone. Even to me when I don't want to eat my veggies," she admits, waving her hand in the air like it's nothing and portraying her daddy like a hero.

Her sweet words encourage me to flip the business card in my hand, facing the letters on its front side. My vision gets blurry, staring blankly at the name of her father. This can't be true. No, there's no way this is his daughter. When Poppy said her daddy was a musician, I never would have thought her daddy would be a Grammy-winning musician. This doesn't make any sense. He doesn't even have a kid, as far as I know.